


Nights in White Satin

by SilverWolf_45



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Based on a Moody Blues song, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Drinking, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gifts from Aziraphale, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), I need a hug, I'm Bad At Summaries, It Gets Worse, It gets very depressing don't read if you might be triggered, Letters, M/M, This fic is so cheesy now that I'm looking at it lol, Triggers, Very Angsty Not Going to Lie, Wings, You need a hug, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26771404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverWolf_45/pseuds/SilverWolf_45
Summary: Crowley just came from Aziraphale’s burning bookshop, and is devastated. He then begins to reflect on his relationship with Aziraphale over the years, what he really feels.Lol this summary is terrible
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Nights in White Satin

**Author's Note:**

> Just to let y'all know that Crowley goes through some pretty depressing thought/things, so if that triggers you, please do not read this. just know that I love you and you are prefect the way you are, and if you are having these thoughts please talk to someone. Love you all! 
> 
> BTW I do not own the rights to “Good Omens” or their characters. I also do not own the song “Nights in White Satin”, it just inspired this work. Each of these lovely pieces of art belongs to their respective creators/owners. 
> 
> Enjoy the read!

Crowley walked back to the Bentley in a daze, his jacket still covered with ash and dust from the burning bookshop. How could someone have done this to an innocent, pure angel? 

He sat in his car and went through the motions of starting her up. He didn’t exactly know yet where he was going. All he knew was that he needed a drink, and he needed it fast. Somehow, in his stunned mind, that meant doing 90 through the bustling streets of London, only to reach his flat 15 minutes after the fire. 

He parked the Bentley, and slowly walked up the stairs of the building to the front door, opened it, and continued his shuffle to the lifts. 

When he reached his flat’s door, he put the key in and turned it as if it were caught in molasses. In the entryway, he shrugged off the dust-covered jacket and dropped it to the floor. He lumbered through the monotone flat and grabbed a bottle of scotch on the way to his bedroom. There, he put down the few things he saved from Aziraphale’s bookshop, and ungracefully flopped upon his bed. 

“This damned bed,” he growled into the mattress. He turned himself over so that now he was starfished on his back. Crowley opened the bottle almost at a supernatural speed and began to chug the contents. As he drank, the dark amber liquid ran from his mouth down the sides of his chin, his neck, and then made their way down his shirt. 

Once the bottle became about halfway finished, he sloppily let his arm that was holding the bottle down. His other hand came up and dragged it across his face. When he looked at it, he saw that there were tears. Crowley could give a damn. It felt so trivial to care about crying now. When his hand came back down to rest on the sheets, he ran it across the smooth fabric. They were satin. Aziraphale had given them to him as a gift.

The remembrance of the gift made more tears run down Crowley’s face. What kept on playing in his head like a broken record was why, why, why? Why did this happen? Why won’t the pain end? Why won’t this day just be over?

He then remembered another important piece of his history with Aziraphale. He rolled over to the left side of the bed where the nightstand was. Crowley opened the drawer and pulled out a stack of old parchment that was tied with a black ribbon.

He carefully unraveled the bow, and delicately removed the letters. The letters that he had written to Aziraphale over the years. They were about anything, everything, and nothing at all. Many included asking how Aziraphale was, how his bookshop was doing, and where he was. Crowley had never actually sent the letters, but in times of stress and loneliness, it comforted him to know that if he needed Aziraphale , he would be there. That comfort was gone now, making almost a feeling of a hole in Crowley’s chest. 

He once again found himself lying on his back, arms and legs spread out on the bed. In one hand he held the half-empty scotch, in the other, the old parchment letters. He also found himself thinking about Aziraphale’s smile. His soft, warm smile. The kind of smile that would always seem to put sunshine Aziraphale’s eyes. Oh, his eyes, Crowley thought. They were like crystal blue pools, that one could discover themselves lost in for hours, swimming endlessly. Crowley thought of the way Aziraphale would always address him, with excitement and happiness. Generally, Aziraphale always spoke with a light, kind timbre. It was one of the many aspects Crowley loved about him. 

Love, Crowley thought. Did he love Aziraphale? He considers him his best friend, for sure, but does he love him? Demons aren’t supposed to love. Demons aren’t supposed to feel. If love was such a newfound emotion within him, then why didn’t it feel unnatural? He had obviously loved Aziraphale from the beginning, he just couldn’t get himself out of the way to realize it. 

I need to get out of here, he thought. He grabbed the letters, the shirt from Aziraphale’s shop, and then his jacket, putting it on as he left his flat. As he went down the stairs, he slipped on a pair of sunglasses. He neglected to take his Bentley, not sure of where the night would take him. 

He went to a local bar that he is not unfamiliar with and sat down at his usual table. He ordered a bottle of scotch for himself and downed glass after glass. His eyes scanned the bar, and they kept resting on couples who were there together. Some were gazing lovingly at each other, holding hands, while others laughed at a shared joke. He sighed, and took another big drink, only to refill his glass a second later. 

The waitress came back around to his table and gave him a look of pity. He rolled his eyes. Here’s a human who’s going to offer me human advice, he thought. 

“This will pass love, this person you're drinking over. Don't deny it, I’ve worked in a bar long enough to know that look.” She sighed, melancholy filled in her voice. “It’s okay, it’ll get better, trust me.”

“Yeah, right,” He scoffed as if nothing was wrong. He waved her away and miracled up another bottle of scotch. All Aziraphale ever wanted was peace, peace for the angels and demons, peace for the humans, and peace for that boy. 

“Well, angel,” Crowley mumbled, “At least you are at peace.” As he said the end of the sentence, tears began to make their way down his face yet again. Crowley quickly wiped them away, stood up, and left the bar. He brought the scotch with him. 

He went into the dark alley behind the pub, and he spread his wings. He crouched down, and shot up into the dark London sky, letting the fresh air cascade over him. Crowley flew around the city and looked for a secluded area to think. His eyes rest upon the top of the London Bridge. Perfect.

He landed on the very top of one of the towers. He sat down, not bothering to put his wings away since no one could see him. That, and he simply just didn't care anymore. The wind blew in his face, which smelt of saltwater and sewage. He sighed and combed his hand through his wild red hair. He then let the tears flow freely. 

He brought the hand that was holding Azirapales’s shirt to his nose. He smelled it, and the fragrance of old books, sunshine, and hot cocoa filled his senses. He brought it away from his face, to get a proper look at it. It was a cream color, and made of the same material as the sheets in Crowley’s bedroom. Crowley laughed through his tears. Aziraphale must love satin, Crowley thought. He cried more, and curled up into a ball. The same thought from earlier in the evening went through his mind once more: Why won’t this night just end? 

He pulled out the letters from his jacket pocket and glanced at them for another time. In a sudden fit of rage, he ripped up the old letters and threw them off the bridge. The wind carried them away, almost majestically. This made him more upset. 

He thought of Aziraphale, his angel, and the way he would have wrapped his soft arms around him, telling him everything would be alright. He would try and do some of his stupid human magic tricks to cheer him up. Even though he hated them, he secretly loved the way amusement would light up in Aziraphale’s eyes.

This made him realize that he loved everything about Aziraphle, from his magic, to his obsession with stupid mortal books, and his unwavering kindness. He loves him, he loves him, he loves him. 

“I LOVE YOU, YOU IDIOT! I LOVE YOU AZIRAPHALE!” he shouted to no one, and to everyone at the same time. He cried more, and then stood up. He walked to the edge of the tower, stumbling as he went. He took another sip of the scotch and sighed. 

“I love you, Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered, and stared up at the sky. “I hope from wherever you are, you can hear me.” 

He spread his arms out, and fell, feeling the wind once again on his face. Before he touched the water, he flew upward, only a little splash touching his foot. He flew back to his flat, crying the entire way. 

When people saw this shape drop from the top of the bridge and fly upwards, they didn’t know what to think. Was it an angel? An ancient being? An optical illu- their thoughts stop instantly. What had I seen? Eh, it was probably a bird. They continue with their night. 

Little did anyone know, it was Aziraphale who miracled away their questioning thoughts. He was discorporated, and invisible to everyone, and apparently even Crowley. He had been following him around all night. Tears also fell down his face. He uttered a single word:

“Crowley.”

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be afraid to leave comments! :) I love to hear the feedback! I hoped you like it!


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